


Body Language

by Black_Crystal_Dragon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic Possession, Awkwardness, Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Aziraphale is just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Canon Divergence, Car Sex, Comfort, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), During Canon, Episode: s01e05 The Doomsday Option, Extended Scene, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possession, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Sharing a Body, Smut, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Teasing, Telepathic Sex, aura of love, i guess i should probably drop that tag in there, implied pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-10 02:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon/pseuds/Black_Crystal_Dragon
Summary: “I do need a body. Pity I can’t inhabit yours! Angel, demon – probably explode.”Instead of pulling his face at Aziraphale’s suggestion, Crowley reaches out as the angel starts to disappear into the ether.An alternate ending to the scene in Episode 5 where Aziraphale returns to Earth without a body and finds Crowley in the pub, and the aftermath.





	1. Body Language

**Author's Note:**

> I asked myself, ‘What _would_ happen if an angel and a demon tried to share a body?’ My brain answered, ‘Weird sexytimes, that’s what.’
> 
> Some thanks: to my best friend and primary enabler [Ice_Elf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Elf/pseuds/Ice_Elf) for not judging me; and to Queen for having the perfect song for every occasion, making this ludicrously easy to title.

“Tadfield. Airbase!” Aziraphale calls as if from a great distance that is growing more extreme by the second. His rippling barely-there outline begins to properly disappear and suddenly Crowley can’t bear it. He can’t lose him, not again, so even as he scoffs at the archaic turn of phrase, he reaches out. His hand closes on nothing because the angel isn’t physically there, but all the same: it works. He feels the moment that Aziraphale’s discorporate form latches onto something beneath his skin and bones and zips up his arm and –

It’s –

Crowley’s body arches away from the table, his mouth falling open in a scream he can’t voice because he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think beyond the enormous blinding sensation of Aziraphale joining him inside the fragile scaffold of his body. The alcohol burns out of him in an instant. The angel unfolds white-hot beneath his skin, an endless expansion of – Crowley hates to even think it but it’s _love_, pealing out of him, pure and immediate and deafening in its intensity. It’s agony and bliss, grappling together at the raw surface of his every nerve.

They need to leave. The pub is full of humans. In a minute, when the blaze of exquisite suffering consumes the last shreds of Crowley’s ability to function, their miraculous disregard is going to turn into shock and horror and fear, and then there will have to be explanations and they _really, really can’t_ right now. One of them shoves Crowley’s body to its feet.

Crowley loses himself to Aziraphale’s presence then. For an indeterminate time he is aware only of the ringing in whatever passes for his ears when he has no concept of his body: a single note from a song he never expected to hear again, uttered by the angelic voice he knows better than any other in creation. It surrounds him entirely. Aziraphale is so _there_, and after their argument and the bookshop in flames every instant of it is a balm even as it flays him apart.

When he comes back to himself he’s in the front seat of the Bentley with the door safely closed on the thunderstorm outside. Aziraphale lays a hand against his chest and says with Crowley’s mouth, “Crowley? Are you all right?”

He grunts, only partially in control of his own vocal chords, and drags his hand down the length of his body to press over his crotch. He’s hard – which isn’t a surprise. He’s been in a state of painfully heightened arousal since the first second the angel possessed him. Apparently, though, it’s news to Aziraphale: alongside the flash of humiliation and heat comes a bolt of astonishment. Then Aziraphale squeezes.

Crowley might, if he was truly delusional, be able to convince himself that the way Aziraphale feels up his cock through his jeans is the curious exploration of an ingénue. The same cannot be said for the deep throbbing ache that takes up residence low in his belly. Aziraphale wants – and not, Crowley senses, in the abstract way of a sexless being who has never felt anything like human lust before, no. This is specific and informed desire, from someone who knows what they are about, and the thought is faintly terrifying.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, and leaves him control over his voice and his left hand where it clutches at the seat and nothing, nothing else.

He uncouples the snakeskin belt one-handed, which is physically impossible, and leaves the ends trailing over Crowley’s thighs. He makes quick work of getting both jeans and underwear out of the way and then Crowley has to screw his eyes closed because the fingers closing around his cock might be his own but it’s very much _Aziraphale_ touching him.

The exquisite pain of sharing a physical form with his diametric opposite has not disappeared, but as Aziraphale starts to stroke him it’s transmuted. The scales tip, throwing the balance in favour of pleasure. Crowley undulates in response. His thighs spread and he sinks lower in the driver’s seat.

There are sounds spilling over his lips in a near constant stream. When Aziraphale opens his eyes for him they ratchet into a higher pitch. He stares down the long dark line of his body and feels Aziraphale’s gaze on him, through him, watching his hand and the needy pulse of his hips. His limbs prickle with goosebumps.

“Angel,” he slurs.

Crowley’s left hand releases the abused upholstery. Aziraphale removes his sunglasses and tosses them aside, reaches up.

“Oh, no,” Crowley gasps when he realises what he’s about to do, “No, no,” while his mind roars _yes, do it, please angel_ in technicolour, “Don’t –”

Aziraphale takes hold of the rear-view mirror and angles it to point at Crowley’s face. Except his reflection doesn’t look back yellow-eyed and open-mouthed and writhing as much as he’s allowed. It’s Aziraphale he sees, Aziraphale’s stormy eyes that meet his in the narrow frame of glass, Aziraphale, who is _exactly the same as always_ as he stares back at Crowley. It’s obscene. He is physically unable to look away or even close his eyes because Aziraphale doesn’t want to.

He’s barely framed the concept of vanity in his mind before Aziraphale’s voice vibrates dark and plummy in his throat: “I see _you_, my dear.”

He wrests back enough control to twist the hand that’s striping his cock in a way he knows this body likes, and drinks it in as Aziraphale’s face transforms: eyes closing, head tipping back, mouth opening on a silent moan. He catches a glimpse of the bow tie against the angel’s throat and makes a guttural possessive noise. The angel’s arm is moving to the same rhythm as Crowley’s and he wishes he was actually here: sprawled against the dark leather, fully dressed, with his pressed trousers open and pushed aside just far enough to –

“Aziraphale,” he breathes, “Fuck,” and then because it consumes the angel’s thoughts, “_Fuck me_.”

In the mirror Aziraphale’s eyes blow open. Crowley longs for the sounds that should be dripping from his parted lips, but all he has is the rasp of his own breath through his teeth.

“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, the sound of his name like a caress, “I’d really rather the other way around.”

Crowley’s eyes snap closed. He lets himself imagine it, right here in the car, the seat pushed back as far as it will go to make just enough space for Aziraphale to kneel over him and sink down.

“At least the first time,” Aziraphale adds, teasing, and suddenly Crowley can see that too: the angel moving steadily over him, somewhere undefined – no, he recognises the trees, the heady scent of flowers, the sun-bathed wall towering beyond the foliage.

“Fuck,” he grunts, glaring into the mirror. “The Garden?”

“You always were – _terribly_ attractive,” the angel gasps, answering the question Crowley hadn’t dared ask and smiling at him in a shrewd, covetous way that really ought to look out of place on his face and yet, devastatingly, doesn’t at all. He bites his lip and the groan that bursts out sounds like both of them at once. Aziraphale’s eyelids flicker. “Hard to get there nowadays. Perhaps the park instead.”

Crowley chokes on a garbled noise and wrenches his left hand to his mouth, biting to stopper a whine that he can’t otherwise suppress. St James’s Park is theirs, but it’s never quiet or empty except perhaps at dead of night and that’s not what the angel has in mind. He’ll never be able to go there again without thinking of it: Aziraphale held between his thighs in the most intimate of embraces, crushing the grass beneath their weight while the rest of London passes by unaware. Aziraphale takes the hand away again, unleashing a stream of needy sounds.

“You’d like that?” he says, gratifyingly breathless as he trails fingertips from Crowley’s chin down the length of his throat. “Look at me, dear. I want to see those lovely eyes of yours.”

The idea of not obeying doesn’t even occur to him. He looks up into the mirror at the flush pinking the angel’s cheeks and moans. Aziraphale’s eyes have never looked less human – still the right shape and colour but too focused and powerful to pass for moral. He’s reminded, suddenly, that Aziraphale is _actually an angel_, and with a little effort he can smite as well as any of them.

“My dear, I would never,” Aziraphale breathes and presses a hand flat on Crowley’s chest, right above his heart. “I would take such care of you –”

And embarrassingly it’s that – the prospect of his angel’s tenderness – that tips him over. He screams through it, locked inside his writhing body by the thunder of orgasm. In the mirror Aziraphale is transported, squirming luxuriously against the driver’s seat, exulting in the sensation. It goes on a long time.

It also _doesn’t stop_.

Oh, the pulsing high of climax retreats eventually and lets him breathe again, but it doesn’t go far. Crowley is returned to how he’d felt in the beginning, in the pub: trying to contain a sun beneath the paper of his skin, Aziraphale so far into his personal space that the boundaries blur between them. He whimpers and presses his hand over his spent cock as his body tries to maintain an erection immediately post-orgasm. It _hurts_.

“Please, angel. Please,” he gasps. He has no idea what he’s asking for. Everything is too much. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, as if this is a complication he did not predict. Then he pulls away, while Crowley arches and whines under him.

The immolation ends. Crowley collapses into the driver’s seat, shivering and alone. It’s a moment before he can open his eyes. When he does, Aziraphale’s dear translucent face is hovering over him. His stomach twists: he wants to kiss him.

“Well,” the angel says with a nervous, fragile smile. “That isn’t going to work if we want to get anything done.”

“Nn,” Crowley agrees in between great heaving breaths. It’s a bloody good job he defaulted to genitalia that requires a refractory period, otherwise he has the feeling they would have been stuck here until, quite literally, the end of the world. Not that it would be a bad way to spend their final hours.

The angel’s outline shimmers and blurs and Crowley makes a soft, unhappy noise as he starts to fade.

“I’ll meet you at the airbase,” Aziraphale promises, though his voice is little more than an echo down an infinite corridor – and then a flash of lightning illuminates the car in harsh white and he’s gone.

Crowley lies there feeling bereft until he’s caught his breath, then hauls himself upright behind the steering wheel to take stock. A snap of his fingers cleans him of bodily fluids and reorders his clothes, and he pulls himself together mentally while he’s at it. Aziraphale had enough presence of mind to grab the book of prophesies before they fled the pub and it’s lying on the passenger seat, loose papers spilling from under the cover. Crowley retrieves his discarded sunglasses from atop it and slides them on before checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

Perhaps if they manage to stop Armageddon, they can try something like this again – only with two bodies and no deadline, and perhaps more comfortable surroundings. A faint smile tugs at his lips: as if he didn’t already have enough incentive to save the world.

He turns the mirror back into its usual position, starts the engine and cuts out into the traffic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have NO IDEA how they would look each other in the eye at the airbase if this actually happened …
> 
> Look, this is one of the strangest things I’ve ever written. I am aware that 1) stopping at this point for an _intimate moment_ is a bad idea for many reasons, 2) it completely ruins the emotional impact of the pub reunion, and 3) Crowley emphatically nopes out at the prospect of body-sharing in the first place. But I wrote the damn thing anyway. *throws up hands*
> 
> Two more parts to follow later this week, when I have emerged from my embarrassment coccoon.


	2. Feelings, Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We rejoin our favourite supernatural entities post-canon, but still on The Very First Day Of The Rest Of Their Lives (Sunday). Think of this chapter as a transition.  


After a long lunch at the Ritz, Crowley announces that he’s going home and Aziraphale hails a taxi. When one pulls up, the angel gets in too and rattles off the address without a moment’s hesitation.

The Bentley is waiting in the street outside Crowley’s building. Someone – Adam – has removed the double yellows and the car is parallel to the kerb, meaning that it’s more legally parked than usual, but otherwise everything is as it should be. Crowley bounds out of the taxi and practically runs to his car, circling the exterior as he’d wanted to earlier when he left wearing Aziraphale’s likeness. He drinks in every pristine inch before opening the door and throwing himself into the driver’s seat with undeniable glee.

“Come on, angel – I’ll run you home!” he calls just before slamming the door.

It’s only when Aziraphale climbs in beside him that Crowley realises his error in judgement. The last time they were both in the Bentley was when they shared a body. It occurs to Crowley that, despite the steady flow of conversation over lunch, there are still things they haven’t really talked about.

There is a silence. The angel clears his throat. “Perhaps I should walk.”

He makes no move to get out of the car.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley says automatically. He has had a long time to get used to stupid reluctant suggestions born out of misplaced obligation, after all, and he knows how to respond accordingly without conscious thought.

Aziraphale turns to him with a kind of stricken expression. “Look, there’s – yesterday.”

He stops and looks at Crowley in desperate search of confirmation that they can actually speak about what had happened. He turns a flustered shade of pink as soon as the words are out. The same warmth creeps up the back of Crowley’s neck, but he manages to grunt an affirmative and acknowledge it. Aziraphale huffs a little sigh and his shoulders relax, which makes the effort worth it.

“Right. Well: then,” he says, “I wanted – it didn’t seem right, just leaving.”

“Not like we had much choice,” Crowley mutters. He’s not sure how much more body-sharing he would’ve actually survived, even if they hadn’t had Armageddon to prevent.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale says. “You looked so …”

However he’d looked, the angel doesn’t seem able to articulate it in words but his eyes manage it well enough. Crowley’s skin flashes with heat.

“I very much wanted to kiss you afterwards,” Aziraphale murmurs. His voice is low and it awakens the memory of how he’d sounded the day before. Crowley’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. The angel’s gaze flickers to his mouth. He shifts towards the centre of the car. Crowley is already leaning in to meet him halfway.

They come together in a rush: Aziraphale’s hand on the side of Crowley’s face, Crowley’s fisting around the angel’s lapel, lips off-centre until Aziraphale corrects with gentle pressure against Crowley’s chin to tilt his head. He gasps, which Aziraphale takes as invitation. He tastes of Earl Grey and sweetness and Crowley shudders, toes curling, and arches closer still. Aziraphale welcomes him with the tender stroke of a thumb across his cheekbone, the curl of fingertips around the corner of his jaw, rewards him with an approving hum when he moans. The sound breaks in Crowley’s throat as the angel sucks on his lower lip, just before he pulls back.

Crowley opens his eyes to find a very smug-looking Aziraphale staring back at him, unruffled. His gaze travels over the yearning lines of Crowley’s body, lingering in places that make his breath catch. Then he smiles with a mischievous edge, brows lifting, and Crowley’s stomach flips over.

“Back to the bookshop?” he says, all false innocence. He takes Crowley’s hand and carefully removes it from his lapel as he speaks, then sits back in the passenger seat.

After a brief moment of inarticulate confusion, during which Aziraphale ignores him in favour of fussing over the fresh creases in his coat, Crowley straightens himself up and splutters, “What?”

Aziraphale glances across. “Well you did offer me a lift home, my dear fellow.”

He reaches over to pat Crowley’s leg and leaves his hand warm and heavy on his upper thigh. His fingers rest against the thick inseam of his jeans. As heat crawls up Crowley’s chest and neck and boils his ears, he is reminded of his own words from earlier: _just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing_, indeed. He swallows, and the click of his dry throat makes the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitch in amusement.

“And when we get there, I thought you might like to come in,” he says and tightens his grip on Crowley’s thigh. A strangled whimper escapes as the implication zings up his spine. Aziraphale smirks. “Shall we?”

“My flat is _right there_,” Crowley rasps as the angel draws his thumb across the muscle of his leg in a suggestive curve. He feels he needs to point this out for the sake of his own sanity, though he doesn’t think Aziraphale has forgotten.

“Oh, but I would hate to impose, Crowley. It was so good of you to put me up last night,” Aziraphale says, his voice dipping into an intimate register over the praise and making Crowley shiver again, “You really must let me return the favour. I insist.”

Another firm squeeze to his thigh and Crowley gives in. He was never very good at saying ‘no’ to Aziraphale, anyway. He starts the engine with an explosive sigh and lays on the reluctance: “Yeah, all right then.”

Judging by Aziraphale’s expression, he sees right through the charade, but he doesn’t comment. He just smiles and adds graciously, “Besides, weren’t you looking forward to driving your car again?”

Crowley bares his teeth in a grin that’s more of a grimace. He was, yes – but he’d rather not do it while half out of his mind with frustrated arousal. He takes his revenge by driving even more like a maniac than usual, but it backfires. Aziraphale is suitably shaken by the experience, which is good, but he expresses it in sharp little gasps and breathy exclamations that only serve to fill Crowley’s imagination with other ways he might elicit those sounds. Every time he takes a corner too fast or floors the accelerator, the angel squeezes his leg, and while there’s nothing calculated about it, it has the same effect as actual teasing. By the time the Bentley swerves to a halt outside the bookshop it’s Crowley who is the more rattled by the journey.

“Ah,” Aziraphale sighs and finally the hot brand of his palm slides off Crowley’s thigh. “Here we are.”

It takes Crowley a moment to compose himself enough to get out of the driver’s seat, and by the time he makes it to the kerb Aziraphale has already gone inside. He looks up at the corner façade and the peeling paintwork of the sign above the door, as he had earlier in the day whilst wearing a different face. He’d been distracted then by the need to pass as Aziraphale. Now the after-image of the fire superimposes itself with an insistence that makes his insides squirm with unease. He shakes himself and tries to hold on to the restlessness that had occupied him in the car, but it’s on the retreat. Annoyed with himself and the reappearance of jittering dread under his skin, he follows Aziraphale in.

He finds the angel turning a reverent circle at the centre of his dominion. He watches and lets the sight of him amongst his restored books quiet the fluttering of his anxiety. Aziraphale is safe. He feels himself settle for the first time since – well, realistically, since he was handed a baby in a basket eleven years ago, but more pointedly since he saw the bookshop in flames. He lets out a slow exhale.

Aziraphale turns towards him. “All this was gone?”

He sounds like he doesn’t believe it. A part of Crowley doesn’t either, in the face of everything Adam has made new, but the memories of blackened shelves and fluttering scraps of burning pages, the horrible emptiness of the shop without its owner, the world without Aziraphale, are too raw for him to forget. A cold weight sinks through what little remains of his desire. He nods, unable to speak.

Something of the pain must show in his face because Aziraphale comes to him with murmured endearments and whispers of reassurance.

The angel coaxes him deeper into the bookshop and sits them on the sofa, leaning back into the cushions and drawing Crowley down against his chest. He resists long enough to rip off his sunglasses then wraps both arms around Aziraphale’s chest and holds on. This close, the sweet dusty petrichor of his scent fills his mouth with every breath. His heart beats a steady rhythm against his ear. Gentle hands stroke through Crowley’s hair and down his ribs, over the tremors of his breathing until at last it evens out.

He tips his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder so that they can see one another. Aziraphale drops a kiss against his forehead. “There. Feeling better?”

Crowley offers a non-committal hum. He does feel better, but he is also aware that he derailed their plans somewhat. He squirms a little higher in Aziraphale’s arms and stretches to kiss his neck.

“Wasn’t there something we were supposed to be doing …?” he murmurs.

Aziraphale chuckles and kisses his temple as he slides back down. “Mm, but this is nice for now, don’t you think?”

“Suppose,” Crowley admits because the angel is right. Despite all the urgency he’d felt earlier, this is all he wants now. He shifts again, leaning more firmly into Aziraphale’s warmth and basking in the sensory excess of his presence. With the angel’s arm around him and clever fingers massaging through his hair, he feels safe and welcome. He blinks slowly and then yawns.

“Sleep, if you like,” Aziraphale says. He kisses the top of Crowley’s head. “I’ll be here when you wake, and perhaps then we can think about how to occupy ourselves this evening.”

“Promises,” Crowley mumbles, smiling as his eyes slip closed, already half-way to dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I can't write anything without throwing emotions at it.


	3. Somebody to Love

Crowley wakes some time later in the dim quiet of the bookshop. It has gone dark outside and the lamps are lit but Aziraphale has barely moved except to transfer his hand from Crowley’s hair to the sleeve of his jacket, where he traces circles within circles on the fabric. Crowley stretches without giving up any of the delicious body-contact. He feels rested – more so than he had earlier, after a night spent more trying to sleep than actually sleeping. It dawns on him that Aziraphale could at any point have extracted himself and gone to check his inventory or explore the alterations to his collection, or at least obtained something to read, but he hasn’t done any of those things. He has simply held Crowley. He swallows the emotion that crowds his throat and lifts his head.

Aziraphale smiles and cups his cheek and kisses him. “Can I get you anything, my dear?”

“Mmm,” Crowley hums, twisting himself into a better position. “More of those.”

Aziraphale indulges him happily, lavishing him with kisses, each deeper and longer-lasting than the one before. Heat stirs in Crowley’s stomach. He rolls lazily, throwing a leg across the angel’s thighs. Aziraphale’s hand slides under his jacket and down to the waistband of his jeans, but when Crowley grabs a handful of his coat he makes a displeased sound and pushes him back.

“You know how long I’ve had this,” he says, employing the dirty tactic of disappointment as he takes Crowley’s wrist and removes him.

“It’s not that fragile,” Crowley grumbles. Anyway, if it was and he damaged it in his enthusiasm, he’d fix it. Aziraphale knew that, or ought to.

“Perhaps not, but I’d still rather it wasn’t put through such rough treatment, thank you,” Aziraphale says. He manoeuvres Crowley off his lap. “Now, stay there.”

Crowley frowns as the angel gets up. He misses him somehow, even though he hasn’t gone anywhere.

“Oh, do stop pouting,” Aziraphale murmurs as he takes off the precious coat. He glances over his shoulder as he hangs it up next to his cardigan. “It doesn’t suit you.”

The way he says it suggests that it very much does, which Crowley resents on principle. He snaps, “Hey, I don’t pout. Demons don’t _pout_.”

Aziraphale gives him an arch look. “If you say so.”

His hands pluck at the knot of his tie and Crowley’s breath hitches as the bow falls apart. Aziraphale talks as he eases the strip of material from under his collar – about his clothes and how long he’s had each item and how fond he is of the cut and the skill of his long-dead tailor, a stream of slightly stammered excuses to fend off too close an examination of what he’s doing, which is undressing.

The waistcoat is next, swiftly unbuttoned and draped over the back of the desk chair. He sits down to remove shoes and socks, stands again to take off his trousers. He folds them and sets them on the seat. His cufflinks go down onto the desktop with a soft chink and then he sets to work opening his shirt. Crowley’s eyes follow the progress of his fingers, the slow reveal of a crescent of skin and below that a white vest. The angel folds his shirt and puts it with his trousers, and then at last he runs out of things to say. He takes a deep breath before he peels off his underwear. It’s even less of a performance than the rest – awkward and unpractised and very human. Crowley’s heart skips over.

It’s not like he’s never seen the angel naked before, but the baths of Ancient Rome were a long time ago and he’s nearly forgotten what Aziraphale looks like under his habitual layers. Though the angel isn’t yet fully aroused, he is making an effort: his cock is surrounded by honey curls that match the scattering of hair across his chest and down his forearms and shins. The shape of his body is out of fashion by human standards but Crowley’s not sure what they find objectionable about it: he likes the curves where he has hard angles.

Overwhelmed by the desire to touch, Crowley holds out his hands. Aziraphale takes them for balance and climbs astride his lap, and Crowley’s simmering desire suddenly ratchets to a boil. When Aziraphale lets go, he slides his hands up the angel’s thighs to trace over his hipbones with his thumbs.

“Now, what shall we do about this,” Aziraphale says in a low voice as he plucks at Crowley’s jacket, his gaze intent.

“My turn for a strip-tease?” he grins, mainly to make the angel blush.

It works, but Aziraphale somehow manages an aloof air even with his cheeks tinged pink.

“Mm, I think not,” he says. He makes a dismissive gesture and Crowley’s skin is suddenly bare. He sounds entirely too pleased with himself as he says, “Yes, that’s much better.”

The angel’s hands bracket either side of his throat. He brushes feather-soft kisses to his chin, his cheek, the centre of his brow, his temple – up one side of his face and down the other before finally returning to his mouth. As his tongue slips inside he makes a sound that Crowley associates with afternoon tea and hot chocolate and crumbly shortbread, and a thrill runs through him at the thought that he has joined the pantheon of Aziraphale’s favourites. He replies with a groan.

It is in every respect what he had wanted yesterday: Aziraphale’s warm weight above him, smooth skin under his palms, the sound of his moans catching between their lips. The hard length of Aziraphale’s cock presses between them and he arches to meet the downward roll of the angel’s hips, clutching at him with both hands. Heat spreads from every place they touch, burning in his cheeks, sizzling across his chest and between his legs.

“Touch me,” he begs in the brief space between searing kisses, eyes clenched shut in desperate self-preservation. Aziraphale fills every one of his available senses and he’s afraid one more will be too much.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale croons. “Like this?”

The affection in his voice shudders deep into the centre of Crowley’s chest. His fingers follow it on the outside, catching on the bars of his ribcage with a reverence that nearly hurts. When Aziraphale takes both of them in hand at once, Crowley sobs and pushes up into his fist. The angel makes a shocked, filthy, _greedy_ sound and the air suddenly crackles with pressure. It hums over every inch of Crowley’s skin, a sensation that has always been there vibrating into his awareness as it intensifies, and it’s only because he’d shared his body with Aziraphale that he recognises it.

His eyes fly open in shock.

The sight of Aziraphale caught in debauched rapture – the twist of his hand, copying what Crowley had shown him the day before – the thrum of his adoration almost a physical caress – all of it together pushes Crowley into climax. His body jerks and a broken wail catches in his throat as it rushes through him. Aziraphale’s incandescent gaze snaps to his face and then he too comes apart, the steady rock of his hips stuttering faster and his mouth opening on a series of sharp breathless cries.

Crowley slides his hands up the angel’s back and urges him closer as the aftershocks fade. He strokes over the place where his wings would begin and tips his chin upwards in supplication. Aziraphale kisses him, sucking at his lower lip and making that pleased little humming sound again.

“Oh, you are wonderful,” he sighs when they part.

“Angel,” he protests, his voice strangled. “I didn’t do anything.”

It occurs to him only then to be disappointed that he barely got to touch Aziraphale – and to worry, far too late, that he should have been a more active participant – but the angel’s expression remains fond. He looks at Crowley like he has missed some larger point.

“Hush. There was no need for you to do anything but lie there while I attended to you, and you managed that admirably,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone that sends a flush of heat cascading up the back of Crowley’s neck to spill across his face. Aziraphale cleans them up with wave of his hand and slips his arms around Crowley’s shoulders before he continues. “You are quite lovely to watch, my dear, and I did enjoy touching you for myself this time. I’m so glad now that I resisted the temptation earlier, when I borrowed your appearance.”

Crowley chokes on his own protests. The corners of Aziraphale’s eyes crease with amusement as he nuzzles into another lingering kiss and love resonates across Crowley’s skin again like the toll of a deep bell, lifting the hair on his arms.

“You see? _Wonderful_,” Aziraphale insists against his lips.

He kisses the angel to shut him up, mortified by how much he likes it when Aziraphale says that about him. The buzz of everything the angel feels for him wavers at the very edges of his perception, trembling into his senses when Aziraphale’s affection swells but never disappearing, even when he can’t feel it any more. He shivers as another wave of it sings over his overstimulated nerves.

Aziraphale pulls back slowly and looks at him in mild concern. “Everything all right?”

Crowley realises then that the angel doesn’t know – but then, for him, nothing has changed. It’s only that Crowley has suddenly become aware of something that stole over him so quietly and gradually that he didn’t even notice. He smiles before he answers.

“Never better, angel,” he murmurs, and catches Aziraphale’s pleased, flustered hitch of breath with his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>I realised far too late that I should have done more with the appearance switch, oops. Sorry.</s>
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
